


And Many Happy Returns

by FLWhite



Category: Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M, Post-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-07
Updated: 2009-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1643399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-show. Improbable encounters and a freeze ray that does its job. Captain Hammer/Dr Horrible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Many Happy Returns

**Author's Note:**

> Written for futuresoon

 

 

They recognized each other at nearly the same time. It was a sharp, windy night, and the skinny sonuvabitch was practically drowning himself in his scarf and huge hat, but all the same he knew who it was. Within the minute, he was sitting next to the man who had ruined his life. "Hey there, _Hor_ rible. "

Horrible seemed to be pretending he didn't exist, so he said it a little louder, then one more time. Finally Horrible looked at him, a furtive darting look that tried very hard not to be either. "What the hell do you want?"

He laughed, as loudly as he could, and enjoyed the sight of his spittle landing on that ridiculous hat. Before he replied, he drank the few drops of Jim Beam's left in his glass; a lump of ice also fell into his mouth, and as he smilingly regarded Horrible, he crushed it into bits between his molars. "Just sayin' hi. That not okay? It's been a while, hasn't it?"

He noticed that Horrible was trembling. One end of his idiotic scarf had come loose and its fringed end wriggled through the acid-smelling air. "A beer and a club soda, please," he said to the harried-looking barkeep, who indicated with a dirty look the trouble that she was being put to before vanishing behind a beaded door-curtain. "So, anyway, whatcha doin' 'roundabouts here? Aren't you busy these days?" No response.

"Geez, man, come on. Don't put on that kinda stinker face. Say somethin'." Horrible shot to his feet, tucked in his scarf, and turned toward the door. At the same moment, the proprietress emerged with a decidedly lukewarm-looking pair of cans. "You!" She bellowed, then Horrible spun, there was a white flash, and she and the drinks vanished behind the bar with a heavy crash. One of the cans must have been punctured, because a small fizzing filled the ensuing silence. Horrible panted, "Get out of here." He laughed again, but softly this time. "Pretty wild, huh? That your new ray beam gun thing? Bad Horse gonna promote you anytime soon? Is that why you got sent out here?"

Horrible's face, for a moment, had gone wide-eyed with loathing. He had always liked that look. But then a steely little grin came on, and it was completely unfamiliar. "And may I ask what you are doing holed up here, _Cap_ tain Hammer, when all the people of L.A. are waiting for their hero to come home?"

Some part of his brain had expected this kind of thing as soon as it'd registered Horrible coming in the door, of course, but it hadn't conferred sufficiently with his mouth to produce a neat-sounding answer. Instead all that emerged was "I'm not that anymore." "Oh? Is that so? What do they call you then? _Mike_?" Horrible smirked and closed the distance between them. He felt the tip of whatever thing Horrible had used on the bartender poke him in the side; he used to be able to break beer bottles against the muscles there, but now he felt the flesh give a little, just like any other man's. "How'd you know my name?"

"How do you think?" Horrible's sneer was good, much better than he would have expected after only a year's practice. He regarded it with detached wonder. Ferociously narrowed eyes. Flared nostril. Curled lip. As he leaned toward his nemesis, Michael Hammer thought, _I gotta quit drinkin' so much_. Then his mouth was crushing the other's; hands--his own or not, he could not tell--were creeping around his shoulders, his waist, digging into the small of his back; they staggered about the room together until a high- legged table intervened, and against it he pressed Horrible so that the slighter man was bent backward with both arms clamped at his sides. The ray beam gun thing went thok against the greasy floorboards.

"I know your name too," With his tongue he traced the skinny cords of Horrible's neck, and up to the tender earlobe. "Billy." The body under him tightened at that, and he braced himself, thinking that Horrible was gathering the force to buck him off. But nothing happened; Horrible had on that perfect I hate you and I wish you were dead face again, so he could not help but kiss the twisted lips, the drawn brows. He was not gentle. Tongue and teeth and fingernails bore down on the little man, who seemed to have given up struggling. 

Then, as he nipped Horrible's collarbone, having undone two shirt buttons with his teeth, he heard a strange sound from above. He lifted his face. Lines of tears flowed from the half-shut eyes so pathetically that they nauseated him. "Dammit," he said to nobody in particular, and drew himself upright, unclasping his hands from around Horrible's elbows, where ten bruises remained. Unable to look at the man, he started circling behind the bar to pour himself a drink, then saw one of the bartender's limp hands on the linoleum and changed his mind. He had never liked the sight of blood or dead people. The place was not big enough for him to hide for very long from Horrible, who still lay there, and for some reason he could not make himself push open the door and leave. 

So he returned to the tall table, feeling less drunk--and more ill--than he had in months. Horrible looked as awful as his name. An overhead lamp some feet away swamped his face in dim yellow light; under his eyes were enormous bags, and splotches of uneven color patched his cheeks. His eyes were tightly closed. "Hammer," he said. "Mike," corrected the man who had been Captain Hammer, readying himself for a blast from the ray beam gun thing. Something thick and soft, like cotton balls, seemed to envelop him, so that he felt almost nothing, certainly no fear, as he stepped closer. He hoped that Horrible would be as quick as he had been with the barkeep. "You know today?"

"No? I mean, yeah? What about today?"

Horrible slowly sat up. "Today's her birthday. Penny's."

"Oh," said Mike. "Really?" A sallow hand reached toward him and touched his jaw, then (as Horrible slid from the table and pressed himself against Mike) slipped behind his neck, where it did something that felt amazing. He groaned aloud, and his cock, which had begun to soften, quickly roused itself again. "The hell," he began, then all of a sudden things were darkening and turning sideways; something seemed to be glinting in Horrible's hand. He never finished his sentence. 

* * *

He came to naked and couldn't move anything except his eyeballs. Straining  
these, he saw that Horrible was hovering somewhere above him. The ceiling was not that  
of the Taco Den; he was almost certainly lying on a bed, but an old and ill-used one.  
There was the sound of zippers and of clothes dropping to the floor. A button snapped,  
then Horrible's face, looming suddenly close, strangely expressionless; as quickly as it  
had appeared, it pulled away. He felt a pair of cool lips move mechanically down his  
neck, past chest and belly, then lightly touch his hipbone. "Hey," he said automatically; it  
came out through his immobile lips as _hrgh_. He tried to raise his arm. It stayed precisely  
where it was, at his side, flatly extended with fingers splayed.

Horrible laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. Mike found that he was impressed by the bastard's progress; now that he was no longer supposed to be a hero, it was easier to see the native talent for evil there. "So you think, _Mike_ , that because you've become an drunkard in Nowhere-town, I can let you go? I can just _forget about it_?"

A fist gripped his cock so hard that he wanted to scream; the freeze had preserved the erection with which he'd fainted. Fervently he hoped that the crazy wouldn't get any ideas about his balls, and missed some of what Horrible was saying. "--she would have better taste, honestly. But I guess I haven't experienced it in full, have I, Mike? Should I give it a go? Hmm?" The fist, which turned out to be greasy with something, now pumped up and down with painfully deliberate strokes. It was no good, trying to think about anything else, including how much he should be hating what was happening. His mind, spinning like a never-slowing top, kept returning to visions of beautiful women--it had been a while since he'd had one--the sleek curves of their hips, their luscious pink- tipped breasts, how they cried out when they took him in, their heat--and he was making animal sounds as he came into Horrible's hand. 

There was a moment of utter quiet. He tried to see what was happening, but felt it first: something firm, rounded, and cold sliding between his thighs, lower, touching an unfamiliar place, then, in a rush, opening him. Gasping, he tried to shut himself to it, but to no avail; Horrible grunted, and with a sickening slide the thing, whatever it was, lodged itself deep inside him. "There you go," said Horrible, breathing unevenly, wriggling the thing. He could not help a cry of shock, "Mgh!"

"Pretty nice, isn't it?" Horrible brought his face to meet Mike's. "Now let's see what the fuss was all about."

 _What the fuck is wrong with you_? He thought at Horrible, who brought a leg across his body to straddle him. The memory of his own assault with tongue and lips and teeth had nearly faded, but in a rush they returned as he caught sight of the purple imprints he'd made on Horrible's arms, and a large angry bite-mark on the pale neck. He was once more as hard as stone. Horrible drew in a deep breath. An instant of tension, during which he wanted nothing but to thrust and thrust, madly, into the hot space beyond; Horrible made a low guttural sound, as if he had been mortally injured. Then he was through the struggle and on the other side, and his brain began refusing to function. Above him, Horrible threw back his head and wailed, as if, now that he had fallen from his death-wound, he would mourn for himself. Presently something hot and wet fell onto Mike's stomach, but he was beyond thinking about it, reduced to a mess of frustrated fury that wanted to seize the body around him and bring it closer, harder, deeper, until he could possess it and vent into it his anger, show it his strength, yet could not twitch a muscle. 

The friction of flesh was too slow, too shallow, not enough. He shut his eyes, saw exploding stars, and in a few seconds came. Horrible convulsed, keening, "Penny! God--no!" A second spray of moisture fell. As Horrible bent toward him, Mike saw that the weary face was gleaming with tears, and remembered the wetness that he had earlier felt. Their skin met as they lay together, saltily cohesive. 

* * *

There was nothing left, no message, no stray sock nor even a scrap of toilet paper  
(he dimly remembered Horrible using a handful to mop up, afterward), only deep  
soreness in all his muscles, inside him, in his quiescent cock. The motel room contained a  
queen bed, a dilapidated wardrobe, and a belligerently green-and-blue-tiled bathroom  
whose toilet was broken, as he discovered when he attempted to flush. In the dim mirror,  
his nude reflection looked less like a hero and more a witless, ruddy specter, one starting  
to show the hint of a beer belly. "Fuck. Oh fuck. That fucker." he whispered to it, then  
dressed quickly and with precision. He did not look back as he shut the pink-painted door  
behind him.

 


End file.
